


Grief’s Cold Hands

by blood_and_cigars



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pining, Romance, Thirty Year Time Skip, Well... Alucard is only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:43:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blood_and_cigars/pseuds/blood_and_cigars
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle of London, and years after, Integra reminisces.





	Grief’s Cold Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt for Alutegra angst. Obviously I had a field day with it.

When Integra was a girl, she had kissed him once, in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability.

In the years later, she tried to remember. How many times she had actually reached out and touched him?

She thought she remembered stroking his hair, smooth and silky. Too soft, running around her fingers like ink. But she couldn’t be sure, perhaps she’d imagined it.

She’d missed Alucard for longer than she’d known him. Memories and dreams had begun to fade together. She couldn’t say how much of it had really happened.

But of this she was certain: she’d kissed him once. He’d looked surprised and a little confused. But he’d tilted her chin with gloved fingers so that she met his gaze directly. He’d brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, and for a moment they only looked at each other...

Before she pulled away, and pretended it had never happened. That she’d never been so weak.

Another thing she was certain: _he’d_ never touched her. He always wore his gloves, always kept his distance.

In those years after, she often wondered what his hands even looked like. Were they calloused or unnaturally smooth, did he have any scars?

What had he even looked like— underneath the ever changing forms, besides what she had wanted him to be?

The first time she’d gone back (when she could bear to face the wreckage of the manor) she’d gone to the basement.

It was only a half hearted hope, but she couldn’t truly believe one such as he could simply be snuffed out. So she’d crept up to the coffin and slid it open. There was nothing there of course, but still she wondered.

Sometimes in the basement— only when the moon was high— she thought the shadows twisted darker. Sometimes as she was about to doze off in her rebuilt office, she thought she heard a sigh. It could’ve been real. It could’ve been grief’s cold hands closing around her.

It’s difficult to mourn an undead creature. After all didn’t Seras claim he would return? There is no true death for him, there _can’t be._

When she was going through the remains of the manor, she found an old set of his gloves folded away tidily.

She found the set of wine glasses he‘d been so fond of in shatters. And amid all that debris and destruction, after so many deaths, she sat down and wept clutching one of the broken stems.


End file.
